Just before dawn, Jay slipped out of Jessica Reece’s house after a close encounter with her father, who had an early appointment. He stood outside under her window listening to them argue. His voice struck a chord of familiarity—a rattling vibration with that distinct, phlegmy cough.

  As he navigated the deserted streets, a chill nipped at his skin. He pulled out his buzzing phone, the screen lit up with a text from his Probation Officer: Meet me at the school’s office at 10 a.m. I will be escorting you to your mandatory appointment at Burne as we discussed. — P.O. Wheeler. Nothing he could dodge. With a deep exhale, Jay tucked the phone back into his pocket and quickened his pace. The day ahead already felt heavy.

  Jay had been in the system since twelve. It started with a dry ice bomb—a stupid stunt that landed him in juvie for two months. Everything after that was a blur of weed, alcohol, and bad decisions, one right after another. He never made plans; he just acted and dealt with the fallout later—if he dealt with it at all.

  He’d grown up in a run-down apartment, watching his mom bring home strange men from dusk through dawn most nights of the week. The neighbors knew what she did—he learned early that nobody was coming to save either of them. People took, or got taken from. One thing he knew for sure: he wasn’t going to be the one getting taken from. Not again. Jay only trusted himself. Always had.

  Jay sold to anyone—kids from school, strung-out neighbors. It pulled him deeper into the world he already lived in. Alongside his friend Marcus, he had cultivated a small but profitable venture growing marijuana and moving various drugs. By 10 a.m., he wasn’t standing in front of P.O. Wheeler like he was supposed to. Instead, he was across town, attending to his “small business.”

  His phone was filled with missed calls. He ignored all of them, a dangerous game he played. It wasn't long before Wheeler's patience expired, leaving behind a voicemail that Jay would later listen to with a defiant sneer:

  Jasper, this is your Probation Officer, Mark Wheeler. It's 10:15 a.m. and I’m standing here waiting for you. I don't have to remind you how important these meetings are for the terms of your probation. This is not a game, Jasper. Every missed appointment, every ignored call, adds up. It's a clear signal to the court about your intent to not comply with their mandates. I need you to understand the seriousness of your situation.

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  Call me back as soon as you get this, and we can talk about how to get things back on track. This is your future at stake. Don't make me take the next step in reporting this. I'm waiting for your call.

  Wheeler’s voice had that same official tone Jay hated—like the whole system was talking through him. Deep down, he knew he was pushing it, but didn’t care.

  Jay listened to the voicemail with a smirk, the words barely registering as they were swallowed up by his habitual defiance.

  He found it almost amusing how the system attempted to wrangle him with the same warnings he’d heard a thousand times. To Jay, today was a small victory—another day of playing hooky, another day without the droning lecturing of P.O. Wheeler. His heart didn’t race with fear—only adrenaline as he felt he'd slipped the grip of authority once again.

  With a flick of his thumb, the phone was silenced and stashed back in his pocket, the outside world muted once again.

  As he turned the corner on his bike, Jay spotted his contact leaning against the tagged wall. The man's eyes, hidden beneath the brim of a tattered baseball cap, met his with the tacit acknowledgment of their shared purpose.

  "Yo, man," the guy called out, a hand raised in a low-key salute. "Got the goods?"

  Jay approached, his demeanor cool and nonchalant. "You know it. Always the good stuff." He reached into his bag, gripping the sealed packages that promised a smooth transaction.

  "Sweet," the guy replied, glancing swiftly around before pulling out a wad of cash. "Same drill?"

  "Yeah, just make it quick," Jay said, as he exchanged the product for payment, their hands briefly obscured within the folds of Jay's oversized hoodie. Quick. Quiet. Routine.

  They parted ways with a mutual nod. Jay felt the cash in his pocket. He liked the weight of it. Today, he controlled the game.

  Jay swung his leg over his bike, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as he adjusted his grip on the handles. The houses blurred by as he sped down the streets, the cash secure in his pocket.

  Arriving at Marcus' house, he coasted to a stop, resting the bike against the worn fence with a practiced ease. He straightened up to head inside—then the police lights flooded the yard.